


golgotha

by charbroiled



Series: Sanguine Throne [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Assault, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Edelich AU, Gen, Throat Injury, Vampirism, au where metodey is alive, crimson flower but it's a metal album au, i am the sole bearer of the metodey tag fight me, wrist injury (non-self-harm), yes metodey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 13:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21302897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charbroiled/pseuds/charbroiled
Summary: Hubert attempts to remove a problem from the grounds of his Empire built on corpses.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra, Hubert von Vestra & Metodey
Series: Sanguine Throne [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535759
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: Sanguine Throne (Edelich) AU Multiverse





	golgotha

**Author's Note:**

> You know, Hræsvelgr is a norse eagle-giant whose name means corpse-eater, right?
> 
> This is the sequel to my fic "stigmata." The notes for stigmata describe the AU setting a bit but the short version I've more or less settled on is: Edelgard, grieving the death of Byleth, ate bone marrow from the corpse of the Immaculate One and now her eternally running blood makes everyone a magic vampire. 
> 
> This fic features our beloved Hubert working out his frustrations on a not-entirely-innocent bystander. It's uh... it's got assault that turns sexual but it's not... sexual assault? I mean, er. Vampires. Anyway, please enjoy my baroque grimdark bullshit as much as I enjoy writing it. Thank you.

Hubert could see the problem as soon as he entered the long corridor. Only one guard stood at the door to the throne room. Winola's stance was casual, her grip on her halberd acceptable, her fangs just barely pressing into her lower lip— all the more off-putting for the absence at the other side of the double doors. There were to be two guards at all times— not because the Emperor was incapable of defending herself, should the situation come down to it, but because such an extreme should never be necessary.

And yet Metodey, the young man with jackal's eyes and the poorly-mannered habit of unnecessary sadism, had just brought that possibility one negligent post closer to reality. Hubert suppressed the several words that rose to mind, though he didn't bother keeping his tone cordial.

"Where is Metodey?"

"Inside, sir." Winola bowed.

"Was there an appointment I was not informed of?" His voice was tight, and the leather of his gloves creaked as his fingers clenched of their own accord. "With an unescorted ambassador?"

"No. Alone with Her Majesty, sir." She stiffened slightly, and there was a wariness which she regarded him with— but there was no unsurety. Winola had allowed Metodey to enter the room, alone, and decided that it was no concern of hers. They would need to have a discussion about this lapse. Shortly. After he dealt with Metodey.

He was allowed this trusted position, against Hubert's protests, because he was a minor-Crested son among those who slithered who had resigned his rank and fought for Edelgard far before the war had begun. After the war, he had willingly sipped her blood— when he fed to renew their bond, it was with a nauseating eagerness. He had begged for the guard position on his knees in front of them. For his service. To be closer to Edelgard. As loyal as a well-honed knife. Pointed at your own chest, it would cut your flesh as easily as anyone else's.

The blood geas wouldn't allow Metodey to hurt her, but self-control— well. It had never been the jackal's strong point, and Hubert had been planning to remove or reassign him before his last thread of propriety snapped and gorged himself into madness.

It was likely he was too late. How unfortunate for Metodey.

"You are not permitted to leave your posts. I will be inside. Unless you hear Edelgard screaming, do not enter until I leave." He shoved the door open without waiting for Winola's response, though he noted with muted satisfaction how abruptly her face had paled. 

Inside, the throne room stretched before him. The heart of the palace, black marble laced with carved veins through which Edelgard's blood, the blood of the Empire, ran. Torchlight danced over the crimson tapestries, as though they waved over a city in flames. But his gaze was locked on the ivory and obsidian throne at the center of the room.

Edelgard draped over the throne, unharmed save for the wounds at her wrists— her half-closed eyes opened unhurriedly to watch Hubert enter. Crouched at the foot of the throne like a hungry cat was Metodey, his orange eyes wide and blackened, unfocused, ecstatic, trembling, his mouth buried in Edelgard’s wrist. His mouth and chin dripped with blood; the front of his black uniform was soaked burgundy with it and even the sharp cut of his brunet hair was streaked with blood. The points of black claws punctured the tips of Metodey’s gloves. Despite the rupturing talons he held Edelgard’s pale arm gently. Tenderly. As though they were lovers. The wet sound of his lapping at Edelgard’s wound eclipsed even the cold rush of rage in Hubert’s head, an anger so chilled and pure that the only course of action felt merely like an intersection of fate.

Metodey needed to be put down.

He may as well have run the length of the room for how fast he crossed it, the familiar electric jolt of calling power to his hand flaring violet sparks down his sleeve to gather in his palm. A spear formed, a javelin of inky darkness, a ragged tear through light itself.

Edelgard raised her head, heavily, her face shadowed, exhausted. Her voice was distant. “Hubert—“

Metodey’s gaze snapped to Hubert as the spear materialized, and he released Edelgard’s arm. His mouth curled into a snarl, baring his bloodstained teeth more fang than human. So he had enough presence even in his blood-addled state to feel fear. A suitable spice for his last moment.

Hubert released the spear just as Edelgard jerked upright, yanking her arm away from the man, but her shout was drowned out by the shriek Metodey made as the summoned blade impaled him to the base of the throne. Hubert was only a heartbeat behind, shoving Metodey back to the ground as he clawed, hissing, at the smoking shaft through his abdomen. Not a mortal wound.

Yet.

The spear shattered and disintegrated as Hubert watched dispassionately, his heel grinding into Metodey’s chest.

“I believe you were informed there would be consequences for neglecting your post, Metodey,” Hubert said, measuring and dropping each word onto Metodey like poison.

“Hubert! This is hardly necessary.” Edelgard had wrenched herself upright to stare at him. “Feeding is neither a crime, nor is improprietiousness.”

Metodey was … wheezing? Laughing? Squirming, under Hubert’s boot, now stained with his own blood as well as Edelgard’s. “If passion for Her Majesty is a crime, Hubert, you should be the first on trial!” The words were awkward, spat through pointed teeth. His hands darted to his face, claws scraping his narrow cheekbones. An anxious habit turned mutilation. The changes wrought of overfeeding were, as far as the finest researchers of the Empire could tell, irreversible. Just as the benefits were.

Hubert shifted his weight to restrict the airflow in Metodey’s chest. “He has become an animal, Your Majesty. By your permission, I will remove him from your sight.”

Edelgard leaned forward, to study Metodey as if for the first time. His whimpering had quieted to short, sucking sobs as he struggled for full breaths.

Recognition did not clear her furrowed expression when she lifted them back to Hubert. “Call for Winola to summon someone to carry him to the infirmary.”

“I will escort him myself.”

“No, you won’t.” Edelgard rested her head against her curled fist, and regarded him with fatigue in every line of her bearing. “Call Winola in, Hubert.”

“I reminded her of how imperative it is that she maintain her post before I entered. She will not come.”

“It is as though you deliberately misunderstand me. Very well, take him outside to Winola. But no further.”

Hubert bowed, letting his weight shift to Metodey again. The man sputtered, clawing at Hubert’s boot, gashing the leather. Hubert’s mouth pulled up into a thin, mirthless smile. Another trespass he would suffer for.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

He grasped Metodey by the collar and hauled him to his feet. Metodey stumbled, trying in his haze of pain and blood-drunkenness to keep up with Hubert’s even steps. He was muttering to himself, about the mercy of Edelgard, his passion for Edelgard, smug in his safety though his hands seized tight around Hubert’s wrist as if he already fought Hubert strangling him.

Hubert shouldered the door open and shoved it close before he spoke. Winola had stepped back in her alarm, her gaze darting from Hubert’s face to Metodey’s and then to the wound in Metodey’s side. If she had paled before, she was all but bloodless now. He spoke smoothly. 

“Winola. When Her Majesty asks, I left Metodey here and retired to my duties. You had him taken to the infirmary. What transpired at the infirmary is none of your concern.”

“Yes, sir,” Winola said, quietly.

“Has Metodey bothered you, in the past?” He shifted his weight, to lift Metodey off the floor. Metodey’s eyes had widened again, and he kicked at Hubert ineffectually. His claws sunk into the thin gap of exposed skin between Hubert’s cuff and the termination of his glove.

“You can’t—“ Metodey’s panic wound his words to an insufferable pitch. “Winola!”

“He— he’s a loudmouth, sir. Importunate.”

“You damn me for this?!” Metodey shrieked. Blood trickled down his arm, under his sleeve. “Coward! Rutting c—“ Hubert tightened his hold, cutting off Metodey's insult with a strangled yelp.

“I see. I appreciate you having put up with him. We will speak again shortly.”

Winola nodded, woodenly. Her gaze was fixed on Metodey’s face, the blood that frothed at the corners of his mouth while he writhed.

Hubert was more than familiar with every corner and twist of the palace; thus, finding a quiet room off of an abandoned corridor, even coming from the most guarded heart of the complex, was trifling. He kicked the door shut and slammed Metodey up against the wall, his other hand undoing the straps of Metodey’s uniform. Metodey had quieted while they walked, though his claws had dug into Hubert’s wrist deep enough that he felt the jarring scrape of bone against bone. As if a distaste for pain would release Hubert’s grip.

Metodey’s eyes were wide, pupils pinpoints, his lips parted into a zealot’s smile that split his face and bared his fangs stained with Edelgard’s blood. The expression the Knights of Seiros had worn while they died for their delusional mistress. His breath had the smell of an old, open wound. Hubert studied him for a moment, pulling down the undone collar to expose the sharp angle of Metodey’s neck and shoulder.

“So close to me, Hubert,” Metodey purred. “I never took you for a petty man. Are you that jealous? Or is it a suppressed lust for Her Majesty which leads you to disrobe me?”

Hubert ignored him. 

His pulse was strong, despite the leaking wound in his side. Hubert could feel his heart beating under his thumb, pushing blood through his veins. Edelgard's blood. More than he deserved. 

"Don't you think the Emperor's grace is so encompassing as to hold more than one in it, Hubert?" That irritating, wheedling tone; and worse, words he might say to another. "How little faith do you have in Her Majesty then, after all?"

In his jaws, Hubert's canines ached. It had been so long since he fed. He was Crestless— he couldn't afford to take Edelgard's blood. What had pushed Metodey too far would unmake Hubert entirely. But filtered through the body of a Crested...

Hubert buried his own fangs into the crook of Metodey's throat.

"What—" Metodey's hands spasmed, digging into Hubert's flesh. His blood came easily under Hubert's mouth and tongue, and he lapped at it, forcing down the excitement, the eagerness that rose in him. There was no rush. Metodey wasn't leaving. At least, not alive.

“Oh—“ Metodey gasped, his body seizing beneath Hubert’s. His grip on Hubert’s wrist faltered; then his hands fell, to Hubert’s waist. “Is this— is this how she feels? It’s — ecstatic—“ His head dipped forward, nuzzling the side of Hubert's head. His breath panted hot against Hubert's collar, and Hubert felt the same brief wave of nausea he always did when feeding off some irresponsible noble, quickly overridden by the taste of the blood, the smell of Edelgard's body so faintly in his mouth under the copper, the salt. 

He shoved Metodey harder into the wall, torn between thinking of the Edelgard's heat against his body with the smell of her, and the entirely dissimilar pleasure of crushing the life out of an annoyance, an annoyance who writhed— not unpleasantly— under him. The noises Metodey made were the small gasps and whimpers of pleasure, the twitches of arousal. The idiot had the gall to even enjoy his execution.

Metodey’s hand wandered to Hubert’s face and stroked his cheek. "Ah— Edelgard—" he whispered, as though he had whispered that name more than once. His movements were slowing, his voice hazy with the euphoria of blood loss and breathlessness. Hubert swallowed down his mouthful of blood and continued. He preferred to get as little mess on his clothes as possible. When possible. He closed his eyes and let himself drift in the sensation, the burn in his mouth, the warmth in his chest.

It was almost a shame, how soon it would be over—

Pain shattered his elation, ripping at his face and shoulder and side and legs all at once. He found himself on the floor, vision crawling with blackness, missing— a moment— he'd been knocked prone. He felt damp blood on his own throat, gouges down his cheeks, a milder pain in the back of his knees. The throat was concerning— the lancing shock of air on open muscle. His shoulder wasn't responding correctly. He needed to get up.

Metodey stood over him, wheezing, unsteady, his hand locked over the wound in his shoulder, but his eyes were bright amber in his blackened scelera and uncannily focused on Hubert. His nailed boot-heel dug into Hubert's uninjured wrist. Where the blood on Hubert's throat had come from was no mystery— a scrap of skin dangled from Metodey's mouth, and when their eyes met, Metodey's smile widened and he swallowed it down with an unabashed glee, then licked his lips. Hubert recognized the inhale— he was about to speak. More garbage regurgitated from the stomach of a jackal.

How careless! Rage rose in him, The same cold fury steeled in Hubert and he reached out for the dark powers he often called on. Metodey's gaze flicked down to Hubert's hand, and then, with the same maddened grin, he darted for the door, wrenched it open, and scrambled into the hall.

Hubert forced the spell back down— no use in putting a hole in the ceiling— and forced himself to roll over, ignoring the shooting jab of his neck and shoulder. Dizziness made him stumble. It was only a moment's lapse, but it was too much.

When he reached the doorway, Metodey was gone. He knew the vague direction, but he was slower than the animal fleeing for its life. He doubted Metodey would claim to bystanders that the Emperor's trusted retainer had assaulted him, and if he did, who would believe him? But if he pursued, that they had been in a fight would be obvious. The nature of the wounds would raise questions which needed to remain unsaid. 

Hubert leaned heavily against the frame of the door, his hair falling over his face, limply. He collected his breath and prepared to limp back to his room. Before anyone saw him.

Edelgard was going to be deeply disappointed in him.


End file.
